his was laughable.

Northrup would not have been surprised at that moment to have seen The
Face in the flaming bushes by the roadside.

"I wonder if there is any habitation between that yellow house and the
inn?" He pulled himself together and strode on. Hunger and weariness
were overcoming moods and fancies. There was not. The gold and
scarlet hills rose unbroken to the left and the road wound divertingly
by the lake.

There was no wind; scarcely a stirring of the leaves, but birds sang
and fish darted in the clear water that reflected the colour and form
of every branch and twig.

In another half hour Northrup saw the inn on ahead. He knew it at once
from a picture-card he had bought earlier in the day. It set so close
to the lake as to give the impression of getting its feet wet. It was
a long, low white building with more windows, doors, and chimneys than
seemed necessary. Everything looked trim and neat and smoke curled
briskly above the hospitable house. There were, apparently, many fires
in action, and they bespoke comfort and food.

Northrup, upon reaching the inn, saw that a mere strip of lawn
separated it from the road and lake, the piazza was on a level with
the ground and three doors gave choice of entrance to the wayfarer.
Northrup chose the one near the middle and respectfully tapped on it,
drawing back instantly. He did not mean to have a second joke played
upon him by doors.

There was a stirring inside, a dog gave a sleepy grunt, and a man's
voice called out:

"The bolt's off."

It would seem that doors were incidental barriers in King's Forest. No
one was expected to regard them seriously.

Northrup entered and then stood still.

He was alive to impressions, and this second room, within a short
space of time, had power, also, to arouse surprise. There was no
sunlight here--the overshadowing piazza prevented that--but there were
two enormous fireplaces, one at either end of the large room, and upon
the hearths of both generous fires were burning ruddily.

By the one nearer to Northrup sat a man with a bandaged leg stretched
out before him on a stool, and a gold-and-white collie at his side.
The man was elderly, stout, and imposing. His curly gray hair
sprang--no other word conveyed the impression of the vitality and
alertness of the hair--above a rosy, genial face; the eyes were
small, keen, and full of humour, the voice had already given a
suggestion of welcome.

"You are Mr. Heathcote